Shadows in the White City (8 page)

“Keep your voice down.”

“Well, is there? Something you want from him?”

“I want to know where the jewelry is kept.”

“No…come along. You must confide in someone, trust someone.”

“I
have
confided in someone.”

“A person or God? The confessional?”

“A person, the only man I trust.”

Ransom walked off, leaving Carmichael to ponder who it might be that had Alastair Ransom's complete confidence. He suspected Thom would guess it to be Philo Keane, so often seen with Ransom in bawdy houses and at the gambling table, but Thom was a bright fellow, and he'd likely soon dismiss the notion and instead go in search of Dr. Christian Fenger for the answer.

As he stormed off, Alastair heard his former chief, County Prosecutor Kehoe, laughing over some joke made by another man who'd come on scene, a man who created a sensation among the reporters and populace—Mayor Carter Harrison. Alastair did not look back as he stepped out of the circuslike atmosphere of White City and continued into
the real city
—cold-blooded murder on his mind.

Thom Carmichael went to see Dr. Christian Fenger at Cook County, and making it clear that he'd come as a friend of Ransom's and not as a reporter, he asked Fenger if he were the one man that Alastair had confided in. “I need to know, Doctor, please.”

Christian Fenger poured Thom a drink. “I'd prescribe something more medicinal, but you'd never take it.”

Carmichael took the offering, his hangover killing him. “What about my question?”

“Ransom did not lie, but I am not the man you seek.”

“Then who? To whom does he confide?”

“One man.”

“Yes? His name?”

“His name is Ransom.”

“Yet he confides in you as well.”

“On certain topics…at times.”

“Then you know very well he intends to dispatch Denton to the cosmos, don't you?”

“I know nothing of the kind, and neither do you.”

“But, Doctor—”

“Put it out of your mind, Carmichael, and I never want to see an inkling of it, not a whisper of it in that rag you call a newspaper.”

“
Ahhh
…yes, of course, the bane of every reporter's existence, ‘No one knows nothing.'”

“And if we are friends of Ransom, let's keep it that way.” Dr. Fenger laughed heartily. Carmichael, after a hesitation, began laughing with the good doctor.

 

For the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours, the time period Ransom allowed to dispatch Waldo Denton, he'd designated himself the avenging wind that would rid the city of the ghost of Campaneua. He'd do it for his murdered partner, Griff, his murdered mistress, Merielle, the farm boy who wanted to be an architect, the young woman, Miss Mandor, to whom Philo had lost his heart, the officious bean counter, Trelaine, the already forgotten by public and press earliest victims, two defenseless women, and one unborn child.

But before
this
monster crushed the life of the other monster, Alastair Ransom would know why…why? He wanted to know what forged this collision, this coming together of forces bent on destruction, this seemingly inevitable, unalterable fate?

This he must know.

Must know if my instincts and what Griff and Gabby had uncovered is true or not.

The same instincts tore at him with talons of a great beast. He must know if it were true that this horror and death were all somehow his fault. He had to know if God
had meant for it to be all laid at his doorstep for past indiscretions.

Even so, Waldo Denton would not spend a day in jail, or in an asylum. Nor would Denton face a quick and painless execution. Not if Ransom's justice rained down on him.

In Ransom's time and in his court, with him as judge, jury, and executioner. People would know, but he'd leave no evidence, not even Denton's body. It was good that people would know. Men like Muldoon, Kohler, Kehoe, Carmichael, the mob bosses, the Tong leaders, the Irish thugs, all the rats inhabiting Ransom's city would know to fear him—to fear his idea of retribution.

Denton hadn't the brains to fear him.

Had no idea what Alastair Ransom was capable of.

Alastair had only one fear of his
own
remaining: that, in his vengeance and what he perceived his duty, he'd leave Jane and Gabby and men like Philo also fearful of him.

“One hell of a price to pay for peace and payback,” he muttered to himself. In the exchange, for loving and protecting Jane and Gabby, he'd teach them fear as well.

Others would wait and see.

Wait and see—and expect to read about it in tomorrow's
Tribune
or
Herald.

Alastair awaited the arrival of the hansom cab
as it was due any moment now at the Chicago River wharf. Alastair knew who would alight from the cab and precisely what would happen when Chicago fire investigator Harry Stratemeyer climbed from that coach. All had been timed, but already the timing was off.

Harry Stratemeyer and Investigator Alastair Ransom had shared many a drink and brawl, and were usually on one another's side. Alastair had asked Harry for a favor earlier in the day, saying, “I need to take some garbage out, Harry.”

“Garbage? And how far
out
are you talking?”

“The deep.”

“Ahhh…I see.”

“And I don't own a boat.”

“It's been too long since we last cranked up the old fire boat.”

“You're a good man, Harry.”

“I consider it my duty—anything to heave out the stench.” Harry had seen firsthand and close up the results of Denton's kill-spree.

Ransom now saw the cab turn onto Randolph and approach
the wharf, where he remained in deep shadow in a recessed warehouse doorway. It was not far from here that young Campaneua's cursed father had died amid the flames during that botched interrogation years ago. Now it was the kid's turn to die. He'd caused enough suffering.

Alastair patiently watched the cab halt before the wharves, Denton sitting high and blinking in the setting sun. Harry played his part well, slurring his words and stumbling about as he asked Waldo if he'd like to see the Chicago Fire Department's pride and joy, a diesel-powered tug that piped its way up and down the river in the event of a fire along the length of the Chicago River, the boat fully equipped with the latest in pumps and utilizing the river water itself to douse errant fires that might break out at warehouses or aboard ships harbored as far as the eye could see.

Waldo Denton—Campaneua—took the bait, wide-eyed and curious at the wondrous fire tug sitting at the end of the pier. He stepped aboard behind Stratemeyer, who waved at a couple of his lads already aboard. “I've another to take the tour, boys!” he proclaimed.

This was met with boredom from the two men aboard, both in suspenders and boots, a heat wave having descended over the city.

Waldo was well into the tour, being conducted about the fire-fighting tug and his head half in the barrel of the water cannon when Harry said, “And just to your left is Inspector Ransom.”

Ransom and the two other firemen grabbed Denton, who was quickly overpowered and hog-tied. “Into the ice chest, now!” shouted Ransom even as Harry lifted the lid to the huge onboard ice chest, a leftover from a time when the fire tug had been a fishing trawler. It held nearly a ton of ice and Waldo Denton, tied and gagged, was dropped inside.

In a matter of a half hour, the fire boat was out over Lake Michigan, its crew, Harry and Ransom enjoying a Pabst—the beer that “Only Yesterday” won the blue ribbon at the World's Fair. Harry remained skeptical of the
new beer, but said he wanted to give it a try. They toasted to a job well done.

Alastair added, “To my lovely Polly Pete, my Merielle. May she find the peace in death she sought in life.”

“Here, here!” cheered the firemen, all of whom had been on hand the day Polly's blackened body and separated head had been discovered amid the ruins of a fire, the source of which had been her apartment. She'd been one of Denton's first victims.

“And to Griffin Drimmer,” added Harry.

Alastair raised his bottle of Pabst and clinked it against the others. “A better-hearted young detective, and so dedicated, never lived.”

“Nor died,” agreed Harry as he and Ransom began feeling the effects of their third beer now. By now they'd taken the boat several nautical miles out over Lake Michigan.

All four men stared at the ice box, imagining its contents, now silent after much kicking and thrashing.

“You think he's froze to death, Alastair?” asked Harry as he gulped down his Pabst.

“We need to get back to the river and soon,” said one of the fireboat men.

“Don't want anyone missing us,” agreed the second boatman.

As if on cue, Denton kicked out at his ice coffin again. “Frankly, I want the bastard alive for the next shock to his system,” replied Alastair. “Boys,” he addressed the two younger firemen, “appears we are alone with the elements and the waves here, so let's get the bastard outta deep freeze for phase two.”

The two younger men stared at one another.

Harry erupted, shouting, “Do as Inspector Ransom says, boys!”

Ransom explained, “So he's conscious of his fate. I want him to know he's to be cold beneath the lake for eternity.”

They opened the chest to find Denton turned blue and near solid save for the shivering. “Took some doing packing
all that ice into the old chest for you, Inspector,” said Harry, “but there's not a one of us who didn't like Griff.”

The younger men hauled Denton from the ice. They laid him on the deck and attached his hog-tied body to a wench and hauled him up over the deck, just high enough so Alastair could look him in the eye. Alastair pulled away the gag and said, “I'd suggest you say your prayers, but then…what sort of prayer does a hound of Hell send up?”

“Yeah,” agreed Harry in back of Alastair, “pray to your dark savior in the underworld?”

“Tell me why? Why bloody hell did you do it? Did you like it?” Ransom struck him so hard blood spewed from his mouth despite his temperature.

He made an animal cry, unable to form words, his teeth chattering, blood dripping onto the deck.

“I'll have an answer! Why kill so many innocent people who had naught to do with your father, Campaneua? Answer me, you bastard!”

Denton attempted to spit on Alastair, but he could not manage it as his chattering teeth and thick tongue were in the way along with the blood he was swallowing. But he didn't deny the truth—the conclusion Alastair had come to understand.

“OK, then! Pray now to the bloody father who spawned you!” Alastair cried out, wrapping Denton's garrote about his own neck.

“You b-bastard, you—you killed my father!” he choked out.

“Know this, you gutless, heartless bastard, and take it to your grave: It wasn't my doing—your father's burning to death. Yes, I was there! But the torching was the work of your friend Nathan Kohler, you fool.”

Denton, while thawing, remained too chilled to respond, but he made another feeble attempt to bring up phlegm to spit on Ransom, failing but obviously also failing to believe a word Alastair had imparted. He could not; it would obliterate a worldview, a customary mindset, a way of rationalizing all his actions.

“I say ice followed by fire,” said Harry. “We are, after all, firemen, and this bastard was spawned in flame.”

“Just drop him, now!” shouted Ransom.

And the block and tackle lifted him higher and the boom sent him out over the lake, dangling like a limp, gangly bird, legs flailing. For a moment, Alastair saw a human being inside this cretin, a child that never was, struggling to the surface. Denton began begging for his life. “Please, please! For God's sake! You have the wrong man!”

“End it! End it now!” Ransom ordered.

“Say your good-bye to this world, you son of a bitch!” shouted Stratemeyer at the moment the hook was released and Denton, still bound and gagged, was sent to the depths of the Great Lake like a parcel of trash.

“Finally…it's over,” Alastair muttered as if to himself.

“An end to the Phantom of the Fair,” added Harry.

“Fish food now,” muttered one of the younger men.

“We can all sleep better tonight,” added the other. “Knowing the mad garroter is gone at last.”

“Take us home, boys!” ordered Harry. “And let's raise another cold Pabst.”

“I know old man Pabst,” said Alastair, “and I know he'd be thrilled to know to what purpose his beer was put today.” This made his firemen friends laugh uproariously as they got back to work, guiding the boat back toward Ransom's city.

Alastair looked at Chicago's growing, sprawling skyline in the distance. It all looked so different from here—
no shadows, no crime, no poverty, no grime,
he mentally quipped…
only peace.
How could the same place have so many different faces? This one face, he must one day show to Jane. Take her on an outing here on the lake to view the sprawling row of skyscrapers. He sipped at his beer, and he tried to imagine how it might look in five years, in ten, in twenty, in the next century.

He'd felt not a single qualm about disposing of Denton in the manner he had, and every man aboard the fire tug named
the
DuSable
had reason to keep their combined secret. Each had been touched by the horror brought to their city by this madman; each had known one or more of the victims. Each wanted payback, and Ransom must admit, it did feel not only like justice and vengeance but right in its every aspect save for one.

“I should've cut his bleeding head off with that garrote before we committed him to the deep,” he complained as Harry handed him another beer.

“You shoulda made him walk the plank, sure, suffer more, but it's done now, and Chicago is again yours, Ransom.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Means that everyone will eventually know that you took care of this mess when Kohler and Kehoe and all others failed.”

“That you took action,” said another.

“Regardless of your new status as Citizen Ransom,” finished Harry.

“Regardless of it, or due to it?” asked Ransom.

“We all take an oath on it boys, one and all!” shouted Harry, standing and raising his closed fist above his head.

“No one'll ever know,” said one of the younger men.

The others joined hands, Alastair the last. “An oath,” he repeated, “that no one ever know where Denton's body lies.”

“Sure…everyone will look cross-eyed at you, Ransom, any time the name Denton is mentioned,” began Harry, pointing to the depths of the lake, “but no one will ever find the cretin's remains.”

 

“Denton can never harm anyone ever again,” Ransom assured Jane Francis and her daughter, Gabby Tewes. He'd sent word to Philo that they might all safely return to Chicago only to get word that he was to instead come to them, to see the beauty of Mackinac Island as an adult.

Unable to say no, he took the train north and joined them.

Tonight they dined at the Moosehide Lodge, and he quietly assured them that Denton was no longer a threat. He refused to go into any detail as to why this should be believed. Over dinner, Gabby and Jane began having fun with Philo Keane, who'd brought up the subject of bravery displayed by Dr. James Phineas Tewes, who had refused to leave Chicago, refused to step out of harm's way along with his family, citing patient responsibilities. After a time, with Alastair joining in the fun, Jane finally confessed to being Dr. James Tewes, and Gabby explained the reasons why.

Ransom spent the remainder of the weekend enjoying the fishing and hunting, in watching Philo take photographs, and in conversations and walks and horseback rides with Jane Francis, Gabby accompanying them at times.

The weekend was over all too abruptly and together, the four of them returned to Chicago via train. While on the train, Alastair revealed secrets to the others, sharing his compartment and a series of items laid out before them. Bracelets, a silk necktie, lipstick case, a makeup case, a gold locket—two pocket watches, a gold ring.

“What is all this, Alastair?” asked Jane.

“After his sudden disappearance, I had Mike…ahhh, a cop friend, impound and search Denton's cab…working on his unfortunate disappearance, you see.”

“All of this hidden in his cab?” asked Gabby. “But where? I was in that cab! There is no place where—and besides, you had no badge!”

“Beneath the cushions,” he explained. “As for the badge, well let's just say I have more friends in more places than I'd realized.”

“What led you to suspect the carriage?” asked Philo.

“I did a break-in at his home and found nothing. Determined not to give up, I suppose an absolute stubbornness of will led me to…an epiphany.”

“Which led you to search below the cushions,” said Jane.

“Where I discovered all these items, all belonging to one or another of his victims. And I found this, Jane.” He held
up a silver clasped locket and popped it open. Staring back at them was a picture of Gabby.”

“I'd thought it lost forever,” Jane said.

“Either he pickpocketed it or you dropped it in his cab.” Alastair handed the locket to her. “Proof positive that he was not only the Phantom but that he'd targeted Gabby.”

Jane held the locket to her breast. “Tell me…did you find these items before or after Mr. Denton,
ahhh
…
left town
?”

“After. Not long after. Someone filed a missing persons report on Denton.”

“Who filed the report?”

“Landlord. Seems he left quite an untidy mess and a sizable bill.”

“And you thought a serious search of his cab might turn up something?” asked Gabby.

“So you searched his cab,” commented Philo.

“Actually, as I was ordered to stay clear of Denton even before I tossed my badge at Kohler, it was not logged as my impound. Beat cop called in on the nonpayment complaint lodged against Denton, so I put Mike on it, and he called me soon as he got a hit.”

“How well you obey your superiors, Alastair,” Jane said, smirking.

“I thought it wise to let others search the cab.”

“And who might that be?”

“I asked it of Dr. Fenger and any eyewitness of his choosing. He wanted you, Jane—well, Dr. Tewes, that is—but since Tewes proved unavailable, he chose another prominent person.”